The Art of Addiction
by x Ruby Dust x
Summary: Sex.Exercise.Booze.Gambling.Hobbies become full blown addictions. Some more visible than others. The question is: which addictions are harmless, an which can kill you? rated M for strong language and sexual content. John Cena. Randy OrtonxOC. Cody Rhodes.
1. Introduction

_I don't have much to say other than I hope you all like this one. And please review, so I can know your opinion. I highly value each and every opinion. _

_So, have at it. _

_Ruby_

The Art of Addiction.

Chapter One.

When Sunday woke up that morning, she had every intention of making the day just...as scheduled. At five a.m. she woke up and went for her ten mile run. After that, she continued with her extremely physical workout consisting of a fifteen minute "warm-down" jog on the treadmill, an hour of doing laps in the pool, and another hour of working out on her stationary bike. A typical Sunday; both the day and the person.

Now, somewhere near one in the afternoon, Sunday felt herself consumed with thoughts of yesterday. She had taken the day off yesterday - at her husband's request - and was feeling completely horrible. She was due on Raw in tomorrow night and didn't feel as in shape as she should have. Sure, her Hapkido(a) instructor was due to the house soon. But, even with the martial arts lesson, she still wanted to work out a little more. So, she added an extra hour in the pool and on the bike. Just to make up for lost time.

Before hopping on the red stationary bike, Sunday grabbed the television remote and flicked through the channels until she found the news. The top story that all the local reporters were gushing about: a sixteen-year-old girl in the neighborhood had died just a few days ago and her memorial service was going to be held tomorrow night. The time, she didn't really catch. Sunday barely knew the girl, Jennifer Wilkins. Just two doors down. Her parents were both lawyers for some big corporation and were barely at home. Sunday had met the girl only a handful of times, mostly at the neighborhood's annual block party. Jennifer was a nice enough girl, but _damn_ was she shy. If you happened to catch her eye for more than a second, she would scamper off like a puppy with it's tail between it's legs. And she was deathly skinny.

Later in the new report the anchorwoman described the reason for her death. An eating disorder. Not surprising, but still very sad. _What a stupid reason to die, _Sunday thought as she absentmindedly propelled her legs faster, _wasting away to nothing until you're just gone. _

The loss was tragic, nonetheless, and she made a mental note to send the parents a fruit basket or something.

Randy stepped into the room, sporting nothing but a wet towel and an amused grin. "You know," he said as he started to approach her, "I'm always expecting to walk in here one day and see that bicycle spin off it's hinges and through the wall." He was always a bad kidder, and that would never change.

"Oh? Did you see about little Jenny Wilkins?" Her words came in sort, practiced breaths. "An eating disorder was her untimely demise."

The smile wiped from Randy's face, his hands now firmly placed on his hips. "Jenny Wilkins? The girl down the street?" Sunday answered him with a nod as she switched off the television and hopped off the bike. Her instructor would be there soon and all that was on now was soap operas. "Jesus. She was only sixteen."

"That's peer pressure, I guess." Sunday commented, searching the room for her water bottle.

Randy nodded, feeling an uncomfortable laugh coming on. He suppressed it, knowing that now was not the right time for any laughter. Uncomfortable or not. "Well... I came to run something by you."

"Shoot." She had succeeded in finding her water only when Randy had joined in on the search. She quickly squeezed some into her mouth, then dumped the rest over her head and neck. To Randy's delight, it left her t-shirt completely soaked.

"I invited the guys to come over for poker night tomorrow. We usually do it at the hotel everyone stays at, but..."

She held her hand up to him, taking his attention off of her eyes and towards where her palm was held; near her chest. She was dripping with a mixture of water and sweat, and her skin was a glowing pink. "You invited them over already without asking me?" It didn't really bother her, but it annoyed Sunday that Randy had asked them, _then_ asked her. She was his wife after all, and she hated to look like the bad guy if she had to kick everybody out. "I don't care, but what if we were doing something?"

"I know..." Her hand was still raised. "Could you please not hold your hand _right_ there?"

Sunday let out a small giggle just as the doorbell rang. "That would be Michael, my instructor."

- - - - - - - -

John jerked awake, his head pounding and unsure of where he was_ exactly_. He was naked. This, he was sure of. He was in a bed, although not his own. He continued his search about the room, collecting his clothes from the green carpeting and sliding them back on his body. Pulling his shirt over his head, it all came back to him.

_Glasses had been thrown. Dishes shattered. His drawers were emptied out onto the lawn, and all his possessions were either gone entirely or broken in to a million pieces on the chaos littered floor. _

_John just wanted to forget it all. Everything. He wanted to be numb, and he was looking for someone else to help him forget. _

_Captain Morgan. _

_Or Jack Daniels. _

_Either would do._

_He had found a place named "Rose's Whistle", a run down old Irish pub where no one would recognize him. That's all he needed, another fan walking up to him while he was trying to get away from it all. At first it was just a smile here, a nod there. But then they had started approaching him in bathrooms. Hell, they had even come to his house. _

_He understood Madison had given up on him and tossed him out like she had. _

_Sure, he wouldn't have minded as much if it was all pleasantries. It would still have been annoying, but not as bad. It seemed that nowadays most of his fans had deserted him. Then he started getting hate mail. Worse. Things like, "I hope so-and-so kills you in that match." or "Whoever cheers for you should be shot. Then again, so should you." _

By the lack of color on the walls and the floral pattern on the bedspread, John was pretty sure he was at a hotel. In St. Louis. The only reason he knew the latter was because the anchorwoman on the 10 o'clock news said that's where he was. Which meant it was Sunday, the day before he was due on air. Which also meant that he had three whole days unaccounted for.

After suffering through a shower, to make his head stop throbbing, he resumed his place on the bed and sank back down into the pillows. On the night stand was a half emptied bottle of Seagram's Extra Dry Gin, which he quickly scooped up. Placing his hand firmly around the neck of the large bottle, he brought the liquid to his lips and tipped his head back.

He had wanted to forget, and he was going to.

- - - - - - - -

Cody shifted onto his side, sat up, and quickly began to dress.

"Where are you going?" The sleepy voice next to him yawned at the end of the question. She sat up as well, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and began kissing his neck. "I thought we were having fun."

Cody sighed, concentrating on the zipper of his jeans. He stood up, forcing her to let him go and watch him as he got ready to leave his St. Louis hotel room. "We _did_ have fun, Maria. But that's all it was." Just how many times had he had this conversation? How many more times would he need to? He saw the pout on the brunette Diva's face, her way of hoping he would join her again if she gave him the _"puppy dog look"_. "This probably shouldn't happen again." But it would, he knew. It always did. He just couldn't pry himself away form the feeling of having a woman in his arms, completely in control of her as he moved inside her. The rush he got as he climaxed, exploding in such a sexual tension that it made his toes go numb.

Walking out the door, heading no where in particular, Cody was sure that Maria would be gone when he got back. That was the point of his leaving, after all.

* * *

(a) "way of coordinating power." A Korean martial art characterized by kicking without retraction and composed of three primary skills: nonresistance when meeting force, circular motion to countering and attacking, and the water principle - total penetration of an enemy's defenses. 


	2. Introduction: prt 2

Chapter Two.

"This is _'Good Ol' JR' _Jim Ross here with Jerry _'the King' _Lawler in St. Louis. And welcome to Monday Night Raw!"

His last words were drawn out and echoing through the stadium as fireworks blasted and exploded all around. Sunday watched the 40" television screen with as much intensity as she put into one of her workouts. The crowd cheered as the last explosion ignited and then dissipated into the thick, hot air. With every passing second, a deeper frown appeared between Sunday's eyes, her gaze going passed the screen and into a meditative state.

A knock on the door brought her back to the present reality. It was John's voice. "Sunday! Shake that ass, let's go!"

She pushed herself upright, took just a single moment to collect herself, then ran out of the door. As soon as the large metallic portal crashed back into it's threshold with a "thud", arms wrapped around Sunday's waist and pulled her backwards. "RANDY! GET OFF!" She pried herself away from him and continued down the hall where she could only see traces of John Cena's path. She was aware Randy was at her heels, but she tried to ignore him as long as he didn't talk to her.

But he did.

"Sunday, hold on a second..."

She started running, hearing the crowd now mixing into a sea of cheers and boos. He ran after her. "I have to get out there! I'll be right back."

That made him stop running after her, so she sped up. By the time she had gotten out on stage, John was already halfway down the ramp. He was jumping around, giving the cheerers exactly what they all wanted to see. He got into the ring, Sunday quickly catching up to him as he held the ropes open for her. As soon as he set foot on the canvas, he was handed a microphone and started bull shitting everything. Just like everyone did.

He talked and talked about talked about some rivalry he had going, how he was wronged last week, and how he wouldn't back down from a challenge. His rival came out on stage, they exchanged some banter, and a match quickly followed.

John handed Sunday his title, his dog tags, and his shirt - which made the girls scream. Then he added a theatrical kiss before she slid off the apron and placed everything on the commentary table. While John was tying up with his flavor of the month, Sunday couldn't help but notice how he had a new sway to his step. Something unnatural for him. If you didn't know him as well as Sunday did, you probably wouldn't have noticed it. But she did. And it made her worry.

The match ended just like everything was supposed to, but the way John had jumped down from the apron and sort of sidestepped his way over to her made her sigh.

She waited until they were safely backstage before she cut John off and slammed him into the wall. He looked shocked, his eyes popping out of his head, and tried to stand up straight, but she had a firm grip on his shoulders. "Has anyone ever told you you're freakishly strong?" he nervously laughed.

Sunday's stomach lurched. "Your breath reeks! What the hell did you do? Down a bottle of rubbing alcohol? Jesus..."

"Dry vodka."

Without missing a beat, Sunday slapped him as hard as she could. He doubled over, clutching his jaw and shouting obscenities in return. "I have two words for you, John Cena. Fuck. You." She added emphasis by holding up two fingers in his face. Two very unladylike fingers.

John shot up and glared at her with the intensity of a raging bull. "What did you just say to me?"

"You heard me, ya big, dumb drunk! Your eyes are bloodshot and you could hardly walk straight out there. YOU HAVE A PROBLEM! " She backed away from him and crossed her arms. "You want to ease your sorrows at the bottom of a bottle, then fine. But if you think that for even a second that I'm going to stand by and let you ruin your career, simultaneously pulling me down with you, then you have another thing coming!"

A crowd had started to form around them, watching the two scream back and forth with rising tension. Cody walked up to see what was going on, and found a spot in the crowd next to Randy. "Someone should stop it," he commented, stepping forward.

Randy reached an arm out in front of him. "I wouldn't just yet."

"They're going to kill each other!"

"And as soon as you utter a syllable, Sunday'll kill you. This isn't your fight, just like it isn't mine. Sunday can handle herself. Give her five minutes. Or at least until her nostrils stop flaring."

Cody crossed his arms and sighed, "Five bucks says she decks him."

Something in Randy twitched and squirmed after those words. "Bet? I'll take your bet. If I know my Sunday, she'll hold back." _What am I saying? No, she won't! _"Whaddaya say we raise the stakes a little, hmm?"

"How little?"

"One thousand dollars." He couldn't help it, he couldn't stop himself. _Goddam it!_

Cody shook his head, "Too rich for my blood. Not on something like this." As soon as the words left his mouth, Sunday reached out and slapped John again, knocking him back into the wall and onto the floor.

Thanking God that Cody had turned him down, he rushed over to Sunday and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her away before she could do anymore damage. "Let's live to fight another day, huh?" he whispered in her ear. Just like that, she was putty in his arms. Only for a moment though.

Sunday let John walk away before storming off in the opposite direction. "I need to hit something!"

Randy, placing his hands on his hips, knew better than to get in her way. She was going to go into workout mode, and fast. It was going to stress her out more than she already was, but it was going to unravel so well for him. She would be too exhausted in the morning to notice if he had lost anything that night. And, if this poker night was going to be like every other poker night, he would probably lose big.

- - - - - - -

John was clearly feeling the effects of Sunday's attack. Mental and physical. That, and the slight hangover he was feeling from the previous night. And the overlap from the night before. And the night before...

_He _didn't have a problem. Fuck no! His only problem was_ her_. Them, really. Sunday and Madison. Even if he did have a problem - which he didn't - what does that say about the type of people they really were. Abandoning him in his time of need?

_Fuck them! _One side of his conscious protested.

_Me thinks thou does protest too much, _yelled the other.

"Screw it all!" He shouted out loud. Too long has he let the little versions of himself on his shoulders control him. No more. If he wanted to self-destruct, then he was going to self-destruct.

- - - - - - -

Cody ducked into the first room he could find. Maria had been following him around the entire night, looking for answers. Truth be told, he didn't have any, and he didn't want to share his lack of knowledge with anyone else.

_I really got to lay off the divas, _he thought to himself as he pushed himself up against the wall.

"Hey!"

Cody stumbled, scared by the sudden vocality of the original person occupying the room. Sunday. She was alone, a punching bag violently swinging from the ceiling. "What the hell are you doing?" she sighed, clearly wanting to be alone but pitying the worried and panicked look on his face.

"Getting away from the world." Or just Maria.

Cody was aware that he couldn't run forever, but he could sure as hell try.


End file.
